by Fiona Barton
“I’ve booked you into a hotel close to the embassy,” Clive Barnes says. “I’ll take you there after you have identified . . .”
There is a beat of silence. He can’t bring himself to say the word “bodies” and no one in the vehicle is about to help him.
Finally, Malcolm says, “Is it definitely Alex and Rosie they’ve found?” and I feel Lesley stiffen beside me.
“We cannot be sure at this juncture, but it has been confirmed it is two young Western women who match the descriptions of your daughters.”
I stroke Lesley’s arm and she leans into me and begins to sob.
Jenny turns her head farther away.
Malcolm is trying to carry on. “We want to talk to the police straightaway and go to the scene of the fire.”
Clive Barnes sounds grateful. “Yes, of course. One of my colleagues spoke to the detective in charge earlier. The postmortem examination is later this morning and the police are still searching the fire site. It might be advisable to have an interpreter for when I’m not available. Shall I help arrange one?”
“What will that cost?” Mike Shaw mutters.
“Yes, please, Mr. Barnes,” Malcolm says.
“Please call me Clive.”
Lesley is still sobbing against me in the back.
“Oh, love,” Malcolm says, twisting round and reaching through for her hand. “Try to hold on.”
The vehicle stops at a barrier across a narrow alley. Beyond, I can see policemen in gray uniforms, with masks over their mouths, and workmen with heavy machinery. And Don Richards.
“It is probably best not to talk to the press,” Clive Barnes says and checks himself. “Sorry, Miss Waters. It is our standard advice.”
“I see. Of course, the press may well help put pressure on the authorities to find out what happened here.” I try to keep my voice even.
“Yes, well. Shall we get out?”
The parents walk together and I see both Lesley and Jenny slip their hands into Malcolm’s as they reach the police guard at the barrier. Mike is two paces behind, his isolation complete.
Don Richards steps forward immediately.
“Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor? Mr. and Mrs. Shaw?”
They look up expectantly.
“Hello, Don,” I say.
“My dear girl. There you are.”
I can hear the disappointment in his voice. I’ve beaten him to it.
“Oh God! Please let it not be her,” Lesley whispers as she and the others are ushered through. I go to follow, but my new best friend Clive stops me with a look.
“Families only. Police instructions.”
Shit.
I try to catch Lesley’s eye, to appeal for her help, but the O’Connors are oblivious to everything apart from the blackened skeleton of a building. What remains of the guesthouse leans into the street like an old drunk, vomiting the last of its debris. The floors look as if they have all fallen through. A charred foam mattress is curled in the street and ashes eddy round the feet of the investigators.
The stench of smoke and soot catch in my throat as I call after them, “I’ll wait here for you, Lesley.” I don’t know if she’s heard but I take out my phone to film them making their way toward the ruin.
I squat down on the curb in the dust and heat to type my story on my smartphone. I need to get the copy sent straightaway and be ready before the families come back. I use my thumbs to type quotes and a description of the scene while Don Richards tries to read over my shoulder.
“Bugger off, Don,” I say when he pretends to snatch my phone. “Do your own color.”
“Doing it now, matey.”
Standing beside me, he scribbles in his tatty notebook. “I’ll send it on my laptop in a minute. I’m on order for everyone,” he says, thrusting his book back in his pocket. “Here they come. That was quick.”
I press Send and stagger to my feet to film the return. They look like a funeral procession as they walk slowly back, heads down, Malcolm’s arm round his wife’s shoulders, holding her up.
“How are you doing, Lesley?” I say quietly as the group draws level.
“It’s heartbreaking, Kate. Have you seen it?”
I step round the nearest police officer and look through a gap in the barrier at the pile of stuff swept up. It’s hard to see clearly but I think I can spot the blackened frame of a backpack, or maybe it’s the twisted frame of a bed.
“I can’t see anything of Alex’s,” Lesley says. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
I nod. “What are the police saying?”
Clive Barnes clears his throat loudly. “I think we should head for the police headquarters. And then the hotel. You must be exhausted.”
“We’re not sleeping until we’ve done everything we can,” Malcolm says. “We need to talk to the police. Come on, Lesley.”
Mike Shaw nods and tries to take his ex-wife’s hand. She almost takes it—her defenses at zero—but something stops her and she bats him away.
“Jenny,” I hear him hiss. “For Christ’s sake. This is about Rosie, not us.”
Her expression starts to crumble at the edges. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t given her the money to come.”
I hear Lesley gasp and try not to catch her eye as Mike Shaw stalks off to the waiting vehicle.
“Let him go,” Jenny says as Malcolm moves to go after him. “Walking away is what he does best.”
“Be quiet, Jenny,” Lesley says. “This is awful enough without you torturing Mike.”
Jenny starts to cry and Malcolm leads her off.
Lesley catches hold of my arm as she passes. “Don’t put any of that in the paper, will you? We are all so upset. It makes people say terrible things.”
EIGHTEEN
The Reporter
TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2014
Don takes me to one of dozens of cafés nearby to wait for Mick, and we try to talk over the distorted din of the Eagles’ greatest hits.
“Why haven’t they got identities yet?” I stir my green tea leaves into submission. “Have they got the proper equipment? Can they do DNA here?”
“’Course they can. This is an international hub, not a third world country. But foreign travelers are not a priority. They get hundreds of tourist deaths a year—drownings and traffic accidents mainly—and the cops see them as a royal pain in the arse. They get them off their books as fast as they can. Death and mayhem are bad for the holiday business.”
A sunburned boy in a T-shirt at the next table is obviously listening, practically falling off his chair to catch our words.
“Hello,” I say, unable to ignore him any longer. “Are you staying in one of these death traps?”
He smiles an “I’m off my face” smile and waves his arms about a bit.
“Are you? Were you here when the fire started?”
He nods. “I was walking back to mine and saw the smoke and shit.”
“Did you know anyone who was staying there?”
The boy laughs nervously. “No, I don’t know who is in the next bed most nights, let alone in another hostel.”
I turn back to Don and shrug. “Hopeless.”
“He’s right. Some of these places cram kids in everywhere. And the owner of this place has gone AWOL. No surprise, really. The place is a death trap—look at those wires.” I gaze up at the ropes of tangled cables strung from building to building.
“They’re always shorting out and there’s rubbish and old gas bottles everywhere. The girls didn’t stand a chance if they were in there.”
“Where the hell is Mick?” I yell, startling the pothead next to us. “We’re losing time.” I ring his number and take a sip of the bitter liquid.
“Where are you?” I shout down the phone. “Don’t know where that is . . . How long?
Okay. We’re in the café at the top of the alley. If you’re not here in five, I’m going.”
Don raises a questioning eyebrow.
“I need to talk to the possible survivor,” I say. “It’s the only exclusive line I’ve got.”
Nervous energy is burning a hole in my stomach. These first hours on the ground make or break the story. I’ve got to be first everywhere, and I wonder where Louise is now, reporter paranoia kicking in.
She’s probably sitting beside the survivor, holding his hand and getting the whole story. She’s paid Don to keep me here.
“Bloody hell. I’m just going to go.”
“We can’t see him anyway,” Don says. “Not yet. I went first thing this morning but it was a no-go. My bloke will tip me the wink when I can.”
“This is them.” I see a taxi pull up and Mick gets out, already apologizing. I stand, and the intensifying heat of the day makes me sway.
“Fucking airport security. Someone must have fingered me—both me and the bloke from the BBC got pulled in to be searched. Our money’s on Louise.”
“Where is she now? And the others?”
“The police headquarters. That’s where the families are going. There’s talk of a press conference being sorted out later. George will ring me when he hears. I said we’d give him a line in return.”
“Okay. We’ll get it from the wires if they say anything there. Lesley said she’ll talk to me at the hotel in a couple of hours, so we’ve got a bit of time. We need to get to the hospital before the pack hear about the possible survivor.”
“Survivor?” Mick says.
“I’ll tell you in the taxi.” I throw my bag into the boot and jump into the front seat beside the bewildered driver.
“Get in, Don. We need you to translate. And ask him to crank up the air-conditioning—I’m dying here.”
As we drive, I brief Mick and ring the news desk to make sure my copy has arrived. I want to talk to Terry but I’ve lost track of time. They’re six hours behind in London, and the graveyard shift is still running the desk through the night. The Has-Beens and Old Beans. It’ll be potluck who I get.
“Hello, Old Lags’ Home,” Gordon Willis, the paper’s former Crime Man, growls. “Oh, it’s you. Just been reading your stuff, Kate. All very moving if you like that kind of thing.”
“Sod off, Gordon. It’s an exclusive chat. Anyway, what are you doing on the desk? Can’t believe they’ve let you back in the building. You’re supposed to be retired and living on the costas with all the villains you’ve written about. What happened? Spent all your redundo on sangria?”
“I fancied a bit of a break from the hacienda. And they asked nicely. Have you seen Don yet?”
“He’s sat in the back of our speeding vehicle, actually. I’ll pass your best wishes on.”
“Do. Where are you going next?”
“The hospital. To try to see a possible survivor—a lad with burns who turned up on the night of the fire. We’ve got it to ourselves at the moment. Tell Terry when he wakes up—and that I’m seeing the parents later, on my own, and that the girls’ formal ID is expected today and the police are saying nothing.”
“Okay. I’ll get him to call you when I hear from him. Won’t be for an hour or so unless you want me to wake him now.”
“No, best not. Look, we’re arriving. Speak later.”
NINETEEN
The Mother
TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2014
Lesley focused on her surroundings: The room was lit by fluorescent tubes set into the ceiling; the floor was tiled with cream-and-black-speckled squares; the tall lockers were stainless steel. And the smell was indescribable. It took her several minutes before she could bring herself to look at the trolley. There was a white sheet covering the body except for a foot with lime green painted toenails exposed.
“Mrs. O’Connor,” someone was saying beside her. Clive. “Are you ready?”
She wasn’t, but how could anybody be ready for this? Malcolm took her hand. His felt so cold. Like stone.
“Yes,” she said, because there was nothing else to say.
The sheet was peeled back by a mortuary assistant to reveal a waxen effigy of her daughter. Malcolm’s hand convulsed in hers. She wanted to reach out and touch her child’s face. To comfort her. But the assistant anticipated the movement and stopped her.
“Please don’t touch the body,” said a police officer, an austere man who stood to one side.
“Alex,” Lesley corrected. “Please don’t touch Alex.”
“Can you confirm that this is your daughter, Alexandra O’Connor?” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken.
“Was,” she said. “It’s not her anymore, is it?”
The officer looked confused.
“This is our daughter,” Malcolm said.
She’d wanted to stay, but Malcolm led her out to the waiting area, where Jenny and Mike Shaw sat in silence. Lesley didn’t need to speak. Jenny’s face crumpled at the sight of them and Malcolm took her hand. “It’s Alex, Jenny. Do you want me to come in with you?”
Mike Shaw got up stiffly. “No, it’s okay. We can manage.”
His ex-wife stood at his side as the door was opened and they were ushered in.
* * *
• • •
While Lesley waited, listening to the echoes of misery in the adjoining room, she played with the idea that none of this had really happened. That she would wake up in a minute and be looking at the old alarm clock and hearing her youngest in the shower. Using all the hot water.
Mike and Jenny reappeared and she was back in the room. “I was just thinking, perhaps it was a dream,” she said.
“No, love. I’m afraid it isn’t,” her husband murmured. “We need to try to think straight now.”
Now. Now that we know for sure.
Lesley looked at Jenny’s face, blank with shock. “I wanted to touch Alex,” she said, “but they wouldn’t let me.”
“I thought it wasn’t her for a second,” Jenny said. “The girl on the table had a little rosebud tattoo on her shoulder. I went to say it wasn’t Rosie, but it was. I didn’t know she’d had it done. I tried to kiss her but they said I couldn’t, that there will be time for that later. But there won’t, will there? No more kisses. The last time was at the airport.”
“How has this happened?” Lesley sobbed. “We need to find out why they died like this.”
“We will, love,” Malcolm said.
Clive stepped forward. “Let’s go and talk to the police.”
* * *
• • •
The police colonel at the Crime Suppression Division was formal but courteous. He was accompanied by the interpreter hired for the families, a young man in a tight suit, Harry Potter glasses, and a ridiculous schoolboy quiff.
When they were seated, the officer immediately outlined the facts as he saw them.
“The victims were found together at the rear of the building,” the interpreter said after listening and making notes, his words harsh after the musical lilt of the officer’s account.
“But their room was on the top floor,” Lesley said. “Alex said so in an e-mail. She joked about it being the penthouse.”
“Not in a room. In a cupboard sort of place.” The interpreter looked flustered.
“A cupboard?” Lesley said.
The interpreter asked the officer a question and nodded obsequiously before turning back to his audience.
“Bigger than a cupboard. A place for storing things. Cold things,” the young man tried to explain, but the colonel had started to speak again and his tide of words was getting away from the interpreter, who lowered his gaze and started taking notes again.
“There was a party on the ground floor,” he explained when the officer next paused for breath.
“He said
more than that,” Lesley challenged him. “It went on for ages. Why aren’t you telling us everything?”
“I am, madam,” the interpreter said, clearly stung that his professionalism was being questioned. “I was about to continue . . .”
“Good,” Lesley said.
“There were drugs and alcohol taken at the party . . .”
“Our girls didn’t take drugs,” Jenny said loudly. “Why is he saying this?”
Her words were not translated back to the colonel.
“The police think maybe a candle was knocked over by drunk or drugged people at the party,” he continued. “Or a cigarette not extinguished. High probability an accident.”
“Did Rosie smoke?” Mike asked.
“No,” Jenny muttered.
“The fire spread very quickly through the rooms. The front of the building was mainly wood. The two girls were hiding from the fire in the cold store. They died from . . .” The young man searched for the right words, putting his hands to his throat to indicate choking.
“I think he means smoke inhalation,” Clive Barnes whispered quickly to end the pantomime before it became too graphic.
“And heart attack,” the interpreter added. Lesley thought she saw Barnes roll his eyes.
“The owner of the hostel is being sought in connection with safety violations.”
And with that, the colonel closed his file, raised his hands in wai, and made a slight head bow as he made to leave. Malcolm struggled to replicate the gesture. But Lesley jumped to her feet to stop the departure.
“Did no one hear them? They must have been screaming for help . . .”
The colonel remained standing and impassive.
“The officer says no one knew they were there until the bodies were found,” the interpreter said.
“No one heard or saw anything? What about the others at the party?” Mike asked. “Where are they? What do they say about what happened? How did they escape and our girls didn’t?”
The officer looked impatient at the question.
“They have not found any witnesses,” the interpreter said.
